Cabbage

This will be quick - the Internet prices in this hotel are stratospheric - apt for a hotel called Cosmos. Trip to Russia was interesting, shared my two man cabin with a giant of a Russian. His arms were so big we could only fit one in at a time. I couldn't understand him, he couldn't understand me, a bit like marriage really. Name? Tricky, I couldn't get the pronounciation as he only said it once, but it sounded like Janet. That was the first word he said, the next was goodbye when he got out somehwhere in the Russian hinterland two days later, presumably to go and wrestle bears...

Russia: I've never eaten so much cabbage and potatoes in my life, or served by such disinterested people. I went down for lunch my first day at the hotel, walked in. Blousey waitress

Me: Table for 1 please. I raised one finger to help her with the translation
She: Sit
Me: Can I have a menu? (I sat quickly, she looked like she was shaping up for a swipe at me)
She: Buiness lunch, FISH

Was she calling me fish?

Me: Pardon?
She: FISH, business lunch

I assume she thought inverting the sentence would make it easier for me to understand. I said OK before she got really angry.

This is the best service I've had. I haven't seen one happy Russian over 20 (under 20s don't really count, cos they are always happy).

I'll probably get Janet again on the Trans-Mancurian leg, on which I will be embarking in a couple of hours. At least we won't get into any arguements.

I'm happy to be leaving Moscow, although its going to take 6 days before I hit Chinese territory, and another 1 before I make Beijing. The Chinese can't be as miserable can they?

Connections, Politics & Greed

I saw on the news this morning that a Frenchman is hanging about on the south coast. How did that make the news you might ask. Simple, he’s waiting for a windless day. Hardly earth shattering, but that’s the BBC for you – if it’s a minority issue they’re there in a flash. I often look out of my window and think how nice it would be if it was windless but I’m not sufficiently minority enough to warrant a film crew.

            With this story involving Johnny French I naturally assumed a EU corruption angle, but no. This Frenchman, who speaks perfect English by the way, is attempting to cross the Channel on a pedal powered airship. So I find myself having something in common with him. Not airships, silly, channel crossings.

            The whole purpose of my trip is to travel by train; it’s a revenge thing (see previous Blog entries). I want to get my Februarys back. But, over a week ago fire in the tunnel, which must still be smouldering, has potentially put the kibosh on my first leg. If I don’t start my journey from Farnborough it will be like starting the 110 metre hurdles after the first hurdle. It will also necessitate a re-think on the book title. People might question my integrity if the 06.58 from Farnborough to Bangkok starts in Moscow. And it might.

            The story is one of connections, politics and greed. I have to be in Brussels at 16.30 on Monday so that I don’t miss my connection to Cologne, which in turn means I don’t miss my onward journey to Moscow. OK, that’s cleared up the connection issues, but politics? Yes, it’s the bloody EU again, I knew we should have voted no. The nerve centre of this money-swallowing machine is in Brussels so every pinstriped, matching tie and hanky, grey haired, freeloader MEP and entourage (for that read family) have to be there on Monday. The world’s media have to be there to report on all the corruption, so added together this makes Brussels a busy place.

            Normally all these freeloading buffoons spend their expenses in the buffet car of the Eurostar, now they’re diverting to the airlines. Enter greed. I enquired about a flight as an insurance policy if my train fails to leave St Pancras. The cheapest one-way ticket was a whopping £250.

            ‘250 quid! I don’t need a private jet, economy next to a fat person will do just fine.’

            Sorry, mate, that’s the best we can offer. Normally it’d be about £80 but the restricted Eurostar has rather hiked up the price,’ said a chirpy, commission earning telesales operator at Cheap Flights (read my previous Blog entry on not quite getting your advertising right)

            ‘Bloody hell, I’ll have to think about that.’

            ‘I’d take that now if I was you Sir, the price changes as the seat availability drops. Its already gone up £40 in the last hour.’

            Naturally, out of principle I declined his offer, oh and a lack of funds, but it was mainly principle you understand.

            I looked at other options, out of principle. Ah, ah, what about a train from Calais. I could scoot down to Dover, hop on the ferry. On Monday, ignoring the, ‘how do I get to Dover in time’ conundrum I would have to be sitting on Calais’s main station, ticket in hand, at 11 am, and be prepared for 4 changes. That’s four potentially missed connections. And that would only get me to Lille. Tricky.

            I rang my mate Stefan at Deutsche Bahn (use this company if you ever travel by train in Europe, they’re brilliant).

            ‘OK, Mike, I think better you get to St Pancras very early. There will be some trains, and yours is an open ticket. Its first come first served. If you get in the queue early enough…’

            ‘Queue? Do you know how bad the British are at queuing Stefan?’

            ‘You think fight, pushing?’

            I was going to tell him about the tutting and eyebrow raising but figured it would be lost in translation.

            ‘OK, I’ll try that.’

            ‘What fighting?’

            ‘No, queuing.’

            ‘Ah, OK, good luck my friend, ring me if you have problem.’

            Leaving aside I have a new German friend, and the contrast between the services his German Company provides compared to Eurostar – ‘you just have to turn up early Sir, we can’t guarantee anything’ – I’m in the lap of the Gods.

            But that’s travel for you, as unpredictable as the weather. Which brings me back to that Frenchman’s airship. I wonder if he has a spare seat?

 

This will be my last entry for a few days. The next time I write, I will hopefully, be in Moscow. Please keep coming back periodically as I’ll be updating as regularly as I can. Tally Ho!

The Curse of Advertising

You might recall from a previous Blog that my hotel in Moscow made a virtue of the fact it had been ‘functioning’ for 50 years. This is an example of an advert not quite getting it right.

            The taxi driver I’ve booked for a days sightseeing in Beijing has a similar problem. He advertises under the moniker of Johnny Yellow Car. Before booking him, I visited his website. There I discovered his car is, in fact, black and, although I can’t prove it, I suspect his mum never named him Johnny. But no matter, there’s a picture of him looking honest, leaning on a car with colouring that bears no relation to the advertised name, which itself is probably made up anyway.

            South East Asians have some interesting advertising strategies. For example, they frequently combine their company name with the services they strive to offer. That’s why you see hairdressers called “Best Hair Cut!” Or Travel Agents like “Impressive Travel.” I once stayed in a Bangkok hotel called “Good Sleep Hotel.”

I wonder of this method of advertising has a future over here. Will we ever see a “He’s Dead Get Over It” funeral director? Or a “No More Hairy Legs” beauty parlour? Somehow I doubt it. Although, in a similar vein, I once saw a poster on the underground for something called Jesus.Com - the legend across the top promised “Heaven is open for business 24/7”. I suspect it was an automated system: ‘Press 1 for Catholics, 2 for Jews, 3 for Muslims…’ I never rang it, but it’s comforting to know that Jesus is only at the end of a phone if you need him.

But, I digress, back to Johnny Yellow Car. We’ve been exchanging e-mails in an elongated booking negotiation for some weeks. Most of the discussion has been around what I might like to see. Johnny suggested the Great Wall. I countered with Tiananmen Square. He raised his Great Wall by adding a gastronomic meal in the Forbidden City. I didn’t have enough knowledge on Beijing to raise him further so we plumped for the Great Wall and a nosh up. And to be honest, I think the meal swung it for me. Its not that I don’t want to see the majesty of the Great Wall, it’s just that it already seems so familiar to me. It’s the telly; they always have a programme on it somewhere on Sky.

You could argue the meal experience will also be familiar; after all there isn’t a town in England without a Chinese restaurant. But, my local doesn’t do deep fried chicken feet in a black bean sauce does it? Or dogs liver lightly sautéed in soy sauce and ginger for that matter.

I’ve eaten dog before and no it didn’t taste like chicken or tuna. I didn’t feel the urge to smell crutches after either, or pee up lampposts. In the North East of Thailand, near the Laos border, they advertise dog as country lamb, but I wouldn’t say it taste like that either.

So, if I were thinking of opening a dog restaurant I’d plump for a name that's neutral, like “Rover’s,” restaurant, or “Here Boy!” Café…

However, I suspect Johnny Yellow Car, will probably take into account my western sensibilities when it comes to eating the parts of animals we, ironically, feed dogs.

Which is a pity because I wouldn’t mind a taste of the real Orient. I think my internal organs are up to it. After all, my digestive system has been ‘functioning’ for nearly 50 years…

Lies, damned lies & statistics

British newspapers think we’re all thick. In fact the media in general assume it. That’s why the TV reporter stands outside a hospital whenever there’s a story on the NHS. SO – THAT – WE - CLEARLY – UNDERSTAND – THE – NEWS – ITEM – IS – HEALTH – RELATED…

Obviously, if the reporter were sitting in a studio we’d all think he was going to talk about studios and get confused, wouldn’t we?

The printed press, who can’t realistically put a relevant picture next to every story, use comparisons. So, it’s not sufficient to know that the land mass in Russia is the largest in the world at a whopping 17,075,200 Sq Km. No, for us to grasp the enormity of the Country we’re told it’s the equivalent of 69 United Kingdoms. Obviously picturing 69 UKs is easier to get your head around. Naturally if you can break it down into Wembley Stadiums you’re onto a winner. Who couldn’t immediately grasp that Russia is, in fact, around a 1,200,000 Wembleys, or 40 million double-decker buses. OK I’m not sure about the last two comparisons but you get the picture (or do you)?

So when I tell you the train journey from Moscow to Beijing covers 5623 miles of track its hard to comprehend. Not that I believe it. Who decides where to start measuring in Moscow, and where to stop in Beijing? Have you ever seen, in any city in the world, a marker post heralding it as the centre of the city? You’d have to feel sorry for the trundle wheel operator who got that job. Imagine losing counts in the depths of Siberia? 2120 kilometres, 2121 kilometres, 2122 kilometres, ‘Shit a bear!’ Fire shot to scare bear away. ‘Now where was I? 2140 kilometres? No wait, 2240 kilometres, oh, bugger!...’

The mileage signs showing distance to London used to be marked out from Charing Cross. So Charing Cross was considered the central measurement point for London. Then they moved it nearer to Whitehall, but I bet they never changed all the signs.

Which is why I’m measuring the distance in books. Moscow to Beijing will be 7 books. The benefit of this measuring system is that you can adjust your reading to meet estimated arrival time. For example, you can substitute War and Peace with a fast-paced thriller if your 7-book estimate is looking a bit optimistic. This is the only form of measurement flexible enough when you travel, and I will be adopting it throughout my trip.

However time brings other complications. The Moscow Beijing leg sees me passing through 7 time zones. Keeping track is made more complicated by the train insisting on retaining Moscow time throughout the journey. This means just before I get off the train at Beijing it’ll be 2am. Immediately I step onto the platform it’ll be 9am. That’s one small step for me, and one giant leap for confusion.

But I’ve thought of a solution. I’m going to wear 7 watches. Set at hourly differences I’ll use the watch nearest my elbow in Moscow. As I get nearer to Beijing I’ll progressively work down my arm, until I am using the watch on my wrist.

Yes, time zones will be interesting. And for those of you trying to get your head around it, here’s a picture of a clock…

Tragedy & Luck, different sides of the same coin

'When I was a commuter my office was opposite the entrance to Aldgate tube station. Periodically, throughout the day, I’d look across at its gaping entrance laughing back at me. It spat me out each morning and sucked me back in every night. I soon learned to treat it with contempt. Simply another cog in a commuting machine moving people from A to B whether they want to go or not. On July 7^th 2005 it didn’t just spit. It spluttered, and then hacked, until it spewed putrid flumes of smoke.

I was putting my jacket over my chair while waiting for my computer to boot up when I first noticed something was wrong. And over the course of the next hour, from my remarkable vantage point, I watched events unfold.

‘There’s been a power surge in the tube,’ one of my staff suggested matter-of-factly as he came in, ‘bloke on the bus said, anyway.’

But it wasn’t, of course. It was a bomb. I watched shocked and dazed commuters stumble from the station until we were told to abandon our building. I threaded my way through the triage centre, which an hour earlier had been Minories bus station; I could smell smoke and mustiness that I normally associated with hot and stuffy platforms. People were crying, one lady, shoeless, screaming she’d lost her companion in the darkness, was being comforted by a passer-by, his white shirt smeared with dust from her hair…'

The above is an excerpt from a bigger article I wrote, a few months after the bombings, which I was reminded of when the news broke of the fire in the Channel Tunnel. OK, you can’t compare the two events; one was an outrage, the other an accident. But for the people involved in either, a dreadful experience.

I talked about luck in a previous Blog entry, or rather my lack of it, but on July 7^th there were probably two trains between the one I got off, and the one that was blown up. Even I’m prepared to concede that I was lucky. But whilst I’ve avoided real tragedy, it still seems to me, to be lurking with intent wherever I go.

Examples. Not long after I purchased a non-refundable ticket from St Pancras to Moscow, the first leg of my Commuter Revenge is thrown into doubt by the fire in the Channel Tunnel. The minute I book my trans-Manchurian train (yep, non-refundable) a plane crashes in Russia, reportedly on the track I’ll be travelling along. See what I mean? It’s like something, the thing in charge of tragic events, is locked into my travel arrangements. It just hasn’t quite got the range quite right yet.

Which is why I’ve decided not to make any travel arrangements beyond Hanoi. I’m not stupid. What tragedy doesn’t know won’t hurt him. I’ll be winging this part of the trip, and I have to admit, I prefer it that way.

I’m really looking forward to Russia and China, but the effort involved in organising these destinations does sometimes take the shine off it. And Russia is starting to make me nervous. If I believe everything I’ve read, I’m going to spend 10 days eating cabbage soup from dirty bowls, served by waiters who think table service is the start to a ping-pong match. Apparently my bags will be searched hourly by bureaucrats who will borrow my mouth for a little Russian roulette practise, prior to relieving me of some ‘local income’ tax.

One of my travel books suggests avoiding some of the vodka on account of it causing blindness. The next paragraph, on Russian Etiquette explains how disrespectful it is to not drink vodka when it’s offered.

So, if I don’t take a drink, I piss them off, if I do, I go blind and die falling off the train.

South East Asia, for some reason, feels more serene, a little more laid back. I put this down to their leaders, who are in the main, more non-descript as the Labour Cabinet. Except in Thailand, where the Prime Minister has recently been sacked. I know what you’re thinking, corruption, shadowy deals, but you’d be wrong. He got sacked because he was moonlighting. In the evenings after a hard days governing he presented a cookery show. OK, you would have thought, if he needed to moonlight, he’d have opted for something less high profile, like a cleaning job, or table waiter.

            Now he’s unemployed he might be looking for a job. I know a buffet car that could use his culinary skills, if he’s interested…

Be careful with your money

Earlier this morning I had a phone call. Naturally I was as far away from the phone as I could possible be without actually being in a different postcode, but I managed to get to it, and wheeze out a greeting before it rang off. From the other end came a voice that sounded like ‘our Graham’ from Blind Date.

            ‘Hello, are you aware that over a third of the population are struggling with debt? This is a free public announcement…’

            So that’s what happened to him, I thought, before cutting him off. But before I’d put the receiver down I was thinking about money – and Big Brother – not that crappy TV series for the mentally insane (I’m referring to both the viewers and contestants), but the all seeing, omnipotent Big Brother. Both of which came into sharp focus when reading some top tips my travel agent had kindly committed to paper.

            Just under the sage advice that Russian customs officials are always right, she suggested a little preparation when it comes to the currency declaration. Russia, naturally, needs to know what money your arrive with, and how much you are leaving with. In between these two administrative events, you can do what you like with your money. As long as you keep all the receipts and can account for every penny. I rang her for clarification:

            ‘Would a nicely formatted Excel spreadsheet do, or should I invest in a full Sage accounting package?

            ‘Oh, no Mike, in practise you just need to jot down an approximation – but don’t count your money out in front of them. You have to remember the amount you’re likely to be carrying may not mean much to you, but it will be a fortune to them.’

            Don’t these customs guards know a third of the UK population is serious debt?

            All this talk of intrusive, Big Brother bureaucracy, re-ignited my memories of the old Soviet Union. I grew up in the 1970s. OK I never spent much time thinking about the Soviet Union, although I was always struck by the fact their leaders appeared to be dead. I was too busy trying to grow my hair over my collar without my dad noticing, and not looking like I’d cacked myself when walking in my platform shoes. No, in the 1970s if it wasn’t sensational (your thinking Tony Blackburn aren’t you?), it was unlikely to make it onto my radar.

            Which is why I was eternally thankful to The Sun, who sensationalise for a living, for pointing out what parts of the country would be obliterated if the USSR decided they’d had enough of the Rubettes. It showed a map of Aldermaston and Greenham common, I think, and drew concentric circles from the centre every 10 miles. Then it explained what would happen to the inhabitants in each of the circles when the bomb landed. My survival odds were pretty good, but only if I didn’t mind rubbing along without my skin.

            So you could say I’ll be carrying some historical baggage with me to Russia, but I’ll try to keep an open mind. Its not like we’re enemies anymore. Not since they controlled most of Europe’s oil supplies anyway. But I’m getting into murky waters here, what I need is a distraction. Ah, what’s that I hear?

            It’s the phone, must dash…

Viva Vietnam

Yesterday I travelled on my old adversary to London to get a Vietnamese visa. I’ve been on it since I stopped my regular commute but on those occasions it was still for business. So, this was the first time I’d travelled on it without work as a destination.

You could say, in my quest for Commuter Revenge, this was the first step, the hors d’oeuvres before the main course.

But it still left a bitter taste. It started well enough; I managed to bag a seat in the quiet coach. This is the one SWT reserve for wanna-be disc jockeys that set the volumes of their MP3 players to ear bleed and leak white noise over the rest of us. Oh, and the fiendishly important people who have to phone everyone they know to tell them where they are.

‘Yes, I’m on the train, running late, nanny died, had to phone my American Express concierge service to get a replacement to change Daisy Sunrise’s nappy and take her to the nursery. Bloody Pilipino, so inconvenient dying like that, next time, I’ll get a Sri Lankan, far more robust– oh, hold on I’ve got another call coming in… Sebastian? Yes, I’m on the train….’

So it came as a pleasant surprise when I failed to hear any incessant buzzing, or catch another domestic episode in the life of a working mother. But I should have known better. It came from a pair of voices, although one did nearly all the talking. I couldn’t see them, they were 4 rows away, but I couldn’t fail to hear the main speaker.

By the time I’d completed the sports section I knew she had two daughters, was recently separated and was having trouble with ‘that bastard’s’ maintenance payments. Oh, and her eldest was prone to wearing skirts the width of a belt – ‘It’s only attention seeking… if her father had stayed and worked it out…’

Upon completion of the business section, appropriately, I discovered that work wise Paul needed to be “bought into the loop.” Ian was “in the loop,” and that she wasn’t sure if Eddy “should be in the loop.”

Meanwhile all I could think about was her neck being in a loop; a very tight loop.

Throughout this imprisoned, elongated version of speed dating the lady next to me had been quietly tutting and intermittently raising her eyebrow. Before she could say, ‘oh well, mustn’t grumble (see previous blog entry) I said, ‘do we really need to know her life history?’

            ‘You’ve only heard the half of it. I got on at Basingstoke and had all the details of her new boyfriend. Apparently he’s very… athletic…’ She shuddered as she said this.

This sort of episode is not unusual. When I commuted regularly I heard things that The Jerry Springer Show would have refused to broadcast.

It reinforces what I’ve long suspected. Commuter trains are evil. It’s the duty of each and every commuter to exact revenge. Don’t sit on your arses, and remember revenge is a dish best eaten on a train…

Rant over, now what did I mean to write about today – ah yes - my Vietnamese visa. It’s the only visa in my burgeoning collection that came with a close encounter with Miss Marple. Presumably she lives near the Embassy’s visa section, which is in a leafy suburb of Kensington. I nearly walked straight into her, well to be more accurate, her dog – a tiny little thing that she presumably puts in her pocket if it gets tired after its daily runabout in Hyde Park. Naturally being of the old school she apologised for my walking into her dog. I didn’t say anything in case I incriminated myself.

What comes to mind when you think of Vietnam? Yes, the war and maybe, that shitty song 19, but what would you say the country was like in comparison to say, Russia, or China? The obvious common denominator is their communist past, but that’s about it. Measure them against their larger compatriots in any other respect and there is no comparison. Apart from issuing Visas. I’d like to put on record here and now, when it comes to issuing visas, they leave their former communist allies for dead. The Vietnamese are the Rolls Royce of visa issuance. If their visa issuing section were a train, it would be a Bullet Train. If it was an aircraft – well, you get the picture.

I handed in my application, went for a coffee, only a small cup, made a phone call, only a short call, bumped into Miss Marple, only a gentle bump, and collected my visa. Even if I hadn’t bumped into Miss Marple I suspect it would have been ready. All done in less than an hour. The hardest aspect of getting this visa was getting the Embassy’s entrance gate to open. The electronics were buggered. But this small inconvenience was mitigated by the steady stream of smiling people leaving, clutching visas to their chests, who were happy to let you in.

There was another big advantage to the speedy service. It meant I could avoid the commuter train on my return journey. I know that’s not very important, but I thought I’d keep you in the loop…

Lucky? Depends on your point of view...

Now here’s a thing. I’m the unluckiest person I know. OK, I’m not as unlucky as the 7 Japanese citizens who die each year because they fail to synchronise their bowing, or indeed, the old lady who had her cat rescued from a tree by the fire brigade only to watch them run it over with the fire tender when they left. But apart from them I am the unluckiest person I know.

But the British view bad luck differently to anyone else (see my comments on British DNA in a previous Blog entry). I’ll give you an example. 20 years ago I crashed my car into a tree. I nearly lost my right eye; I broke my ankle, elbow, knuckle, and two ribs. Oh, and I developed a nasty cough. The doctor told me I would never cartwheel again and he was right. It took the recovery team 4 hours to lever my car off the tree. It was so mangled they posted it back to me.

A policeman came to check on me in hospital the next morning.

            ‘My, my, you’re a very lucky fellow,’ was the first thing he said.

Lucky? If I’d been lucky, I wouldn’t be laying in bed waiting for an MRSA bug to kill me would I?

The first friend to see me after I was discharged, standing on crutches, stitches over my eye; unable to pee unless I sat down, looked me up and down.

            ‘F**k me, you’ve had a result.’

Result? A result is winning the lottery.

Thereafter, every friend, family member, complete stranger in the street, all patted me on my good arm and told me how lucky I was. Meanwhile any rational person would point out the obvious:

Not hitting the tree is lucky.

So please believe me when I say I am unlucky. Which makes what happened yesterday all the more unusual. My passport came back with all the visas I need for the UK to Beijing leg of my trip. The details were correct; the dates corresponded with my journey and all a week earlier than expected. Naturally the visa agent hadn’t put enough postage on the special delivery envelope, but hey, I still consider this a result. Lucky even.

But wait, it gets better. During the course of the day 2 writing commissions arrived in my in box. This was definitely a result.

While I’m on a roll I thought I’d tackle the Vietnamese visa section next – in person. Yes, they let you apply in person for your visa, so I’ll be popping up on the train next week. And because I have to be there early, I’ll be catching my old commuter train. My old adversary and me will be locking horns at 06.58 on Tuesday. Farnborough station is where the battle starts.

I’m not afraid, I’ll show it respect, but I’m not going to bow – too dangerous…

Picture Power

I think it was Telly Savalas who sang that a picture paints 1000 words. I can’t recall the next line as my brain refuses to remember him as anything other than the tough talking, non-singing Kojak.

OK, I can’t get excited about the song but I kind of agree with the sentiment. I good photograph is a story in itself. A bad one is a thumb.

So I’ve been thinking photographs. Then I thought camera. Obviously, I need a new camera. Not want one you understand. Need one. I own a digital camera, which, being over 6 months old, is about as obsolete as a Sinclair C5. Certainly the manufacturer doesn’t make it anymore, which has to mean something right?

So, when a brochure from a well-known camera retailer fell into my lap and opened itself at the SLR section, I thought hello... Then I noticed someone had scribbled a huge red asterisk above an Olympus E-420 – this must be fate, I mused.

Then, a week later, while surfing the Internet, a page popped up belonging to another retailer, and yes, you’ve guessed it, at the SLR section. The Olympus E-420 was highlighted, with arrows pointing at it from every direction. Spooky I thought. Then I saw the price - £50 cheaper.

A week later – and you might guess where this is going – I was passing another camera shop and noticed a man in the window tap dancing beside an Olympus E-420. He was holding a sign saying, ‘Olympus E-420 – special discount today for anyone called Mike. It was £100 cheaper.

You think I bought it don’t you? Well, your wrong. I suspect there’s some Scottish in me on my mother’s side, and I couldn’t bring myself to buy a camera with a price that drops faster than its shutter speed.

I decided I could ignore the pitiful glances and make do with the camera I have. I may need a surgical appliance to lift it, but look at the workmanship. They just don’t make them like this anymore.

I’ll be taking a lot of pictures on my trip, which got me thinking about storage. I went to the shop.

            ‘Hello, I’ve got a Canon Powershot digital camera.’ 9-year-old assistant stifles a snigger. ‘And I’d like to ask you about storage.’

The 9-year-old looked over at is 11-year-old sister, who went to get her dad. Her dad apparently, is the only one in the store to have heard of a Canon Powershot digital camera.

            ‘A Canon Powershot digital camera,’ he repeated in an unnecessarily loud voice? Is that the 95?

            ’95 what.’ I asked. He looked admiringly at the kids. Checkmate, first attempt. One up to the probably divorced, greasy haired, cheap shoe wearing, purple-shirted shop assistant with sweat stains under his armpits.

            ‘Never mind Sir, many of our carry cases are universal – that means they can be used for any type of camera.’ He said the last bit very slowly, like I’d just arrived from Lithuania.

            ‘I don’t mean storage as in carry bag, I mean storage for my photos – you know, instead of filling up the card thingy I want to transfer it to something else, so I can use the card, thingy, you know, the wotsit thing in the camera again – instead of it filling up.’

At this point a newborn child joined in. ‘He means a memory card – he gurgled before going off for a feed.

            ‘Ah, why didn’t you say Sir – what make is it?’

            ‘No, I’ve got a card, its in the camera, I want to store it on something else.’

Despite my telling him I wouldn’t have access to a computer he kept suggesting I simply download the photos when the memory card was full. I gave up and left shaking my head. He read the kids a story and put them to bed.

So, I’m no nearer to solving my storage issue – looks like I’ll have to restrict my pictures to painting a 100 words…

The British Disease...

03/09/08

69 years ago today Great Britain declared war on Germany, and in typical British fashion did nothing for a bit. It was called the phoney war – until bombs started landing on our chip shops. Then we started to take it a little more seriously. People who came home to find a crater where their house used to be were often driven to tut, and in some instances raise an eyebrow to the sky.

I know I promised in my last Blog that I wouldn’t mention the war, but please, bear with me, because you need to understand something about the British. Our national pastime, apart from talking about the weather, is moaning – but only amongst ourselves. We wouldn’t dream of complaining about, say, poor service in a restaurant, directly to the person serving us. Its unlikely we’d even mention it to the manager. But, if we find ourselves standing next to a complete stranger at a bus stop? Well then, we sing like a canary.

To be British is to expect things to go wrong. The phrase ‘oh well, things could be worse I suppose,’ originates from the war. Come home from work to find that what remains of your house could fit into a your pockets, and that your whole family have been wiped out? ‘Oh well, things could be worse I suppose,’ quiet tut, brief eyebrow lift, and back to work.

So you see, my DNA is programmed to expect disappointment, as I suspect it will on the Visa front. I haven’t seen my passport for some weeks as its been flitting between the embassies of the countries I’m travelling through. By the time I get it back (if it ever comes back) it will have earned a holiday – which is just as well…

The Russian Visa process is typical. They need a form, photo, passport, more money than I earn in a week, and an invite from an approved source. Naturally the form must have no errors or crossings out. A flourishing signature that finds itself outside the designated space of the signature box is an immediate rejection. Perhaps the Russians have something against flamboyant people. Maybe so, but they’ve nothing against money. Rejection on administrative grounds means they still keep the application fee.

The invite is an interesting element, China do this too. I’m visiting a country, not one of its citizens, so how would I get an invite? They’ve thought of that, so most hotels can offer an invite – for a fee.

I’m being invited to Russia by Hotel Tourist, formally state owned (wasn’t everything), which their website informs me ‘has been functioning for 50 years.’ I don’t know about you, but the word ‘functioning’ doesn’t fill me with confidence. I like hotels that say ‘been looking after our guests for 50 years,’ or ‘celebrating 50 years of service with our loyal customers, who we think of as friends and love more than our own families.’ Functioning just doesn’t do it for me. But they did invite me, and it would be bad form not to turn up. Naturally being British, I’ll bring a bottle.

The Belarusian visa is an even bigger con. I won’t be so much as planting a toe on their beloved soil. I’m only travelling through. In fact, I’ll probably be asleep as the train cuts a swathe across its green and fertile land. On second thought I’ll stay awake. I want to see what I’m getting for my money. The visa’s costing me about £1 per mile, I don’t care if it’s dark.

My DNA tells me I will never see my passport again. I’m not holding my breath, but I might bore the arse off the person next to me in the bus queue later about the trouble I’m having. I’m not sure how the discussion will start, but I know how it’ll end. ‘Things could be worse I suppose…’

Political Unrest & Sharing

I heard on the news this morning that Thailand has called a state of emergency following rioting in Bangkok. This international unrest comes hot on the heels of Russian adventures in Georgia, which have strained relations with the West so much they’re threatening to turn off our (their) oil.

Politically, this might not be the ideal time to embark on a journey that takes in both countries, but then again, it might just add to the experience. Mind you, if I find myself sharing my Trans-Manchurian carriage with a rabid, nationalistic, cabbage smelling, vodka swilling, ex NKVD torturer, with a crooked smile, called Igor, I might think differently.

You will know, if you bothered to read my last entry, that the common theme of my Commuter’s Revenge is trains – that’s not to say that my train experience across the continents will be similar to my straight line into London. On my commuter train, for example, anyone heard talking above a whisper is usually considered to be a failed care in the community case. I’ll have to talk to people on my train journey. The trains I’m taking to Bangkok are sleepers, and there’s an element of sharing on all of them.

I’m not a natural sharer, but at least I’m easing myself in with a 2 nighter from Cologne to Moscow. I’m going first class – justifying this to myself because its only £40 more expensive than second. However, the benefit is that I’ll only be sharing with one other. In second-class I’d have four sharers. I asked the rather helpful Hans at the Deutsche Bahn booking centre what I might expect.

            ‘Yah, OK, you might get a Russian.’ He said in the sort of tone I reserve for telling a friend their cats dead, and currently sprawled out under my bonnet.

            ‘But most likely,’ he said perking up, ‘it will be a German.’ I imagined him standing to attention as he said this.

Personally I have nothing against either nationality – don’t mention the war, or the Romanovs – that’s what I say. But I was a little unsettled at the thought that there’s a complete stranger somewhere in Mainland Europe blissfully ignorant of the fact that trains gives me wind. Or rather, I’m worried they will. A continuous rolling motion might plays havoc with my own motions. I can’t explain why I think this – I know it’s not logical. A hulking great piece of metal running on rails shouldn’t turn me into Johnny Fart Pants? But what if it does?

This could make the six-night trip from Moscow to Beijing a little atmospheric. Literally. Especially if I get Igor the cabbage-eating psychopath as my co-sharer? We might end up being quarantined in our cabin. Confined in such a small space could trigger a regression. He might see me as a blank canvass for his special style of body art. I might end up with a portrait of Stalin burned into my chest, or find my knuckles facing the wrong way. Or worse, I might wake up dead.

Hans finished the call with another piece of sage advice.

‘Remember Mike, its easy to get paranoid ven you travel. Just let it happen. I’m sure whoever you share with vill be very nice.’

Easy for him to say, sitting on his comfy chair, in an air-conditioned office, somewhere in London.

So, where am I going after Beijing? To more comfortable territory, that’s where – Vietnam, Cambodia, and then Thailand. I’ve been to South East Asia many times, including train journeys – except Cambodia.

I asked someone about the trains in Cambodia. Not just anyone, a true bona fide trainspotting fanatic. You know the type; they hang about at the end of platforms, dressed like an angler, with a Tupperware addiction.

‘Be quicker to walk mate.’

Apparently, Cambodia only has one train route and a couple of trains. None of which are replicated in the Hornby catalogue collection, or have a service record beyond 1970. Air conditioning means sitting on the roof, and the only food available is scurrying around the carriage, if you can catch it.

Still, at least Cambodia is peaceful, there’s no rioting that I know of, and they don’t have any oil to turn off. 

Welcome to the 06.58 train to Bangkok

Welcome to my inaugural posting. Ok. Right. Where do I start. I know, I'll start by shouting at my neighbour - he's fiddling with his car again and its playing havoc with my creative juices. The protective glasses he's wearing makes him look like Cato out of the Pink Panther films.

How dangerous can adjusting windscreen washers be?

After each adjustment he tries them out and then gets out to wipe down the screen with his hanky. I've watched at least 10 adjustments. I might just be looking at the most symmetrical pair of windscreen washers in England. Maybe I'll take a picture and post it on here. But then, someone else might come up with another set that are even more symmetrical. I'd then feel obliged to look for an even more symmetrical pair... No, no, that's the way of madness. I mustn't allow myself to get side-tracked. I must stay focussed - remember why I've started this Blog. Why did I start it?

Well, revenge really. That's what this blog is all about, revenge.

For many years I commuted into London by train. I worked out that, over the course of a year, I spent the equivalent of 22 days commuting. You get a lot of time to think on a train. That's nearly a whole February per year trying to fit two buttocks on a seat only designed for one and a half (if you're lucky enough to get a seat). All that effort to get to a job I didn't even enjoy doing...

Finally my buttocks made me give up - it took 6 months to get the feeling back - and do something else. So now I write for a living. The money isn't as good but the daily commute is down to 3 minutes, providing the dining room, which is on the way to my office, isn't busy with late breakfasters...

Problem solved, no more commute you're thinking. That's what I thought too, but I soon began to realise it wasn't. Nope, only revenge was going to satisfy me.

So I came up with something called Commuter's Revenge - anyone can do it - providing you've commuted to work that is. And if I inspire just one person to get off the commuting treadmill and do something completely different, for just a few weeks in their life, I will consider my first act of revenge as a triumph. 

So, what is my first act of revenge?

Welcome to the 06.58 train to Bangkok. After years of trains taking me to places I didn’t want to go, they’re going to take me to where I do want to go. Each day on the train will be a two-fingered salute to draughty stations, cancellations, enforced listening in on peoples' private lives acted out on a mobile phone, and the incessant buzzing of overly loud MP3 players in the quiet carriage.

Now, he's the clever bit. Starting from my old commuter station of Farnborough (UK), how long do you think this journey will take me? 22 days.

Don't you just love the symmetry? Which brings me nicely back to my neighbour and his meticulously appointed windscreen washers... perhaps I will take a picture...

PS - pop back to my blog regularly - I start my journey on the 22nd September but I need to fill you in on how I got this far... oh, and keep you up to date with my neighbours mechanical habits...